


A Study in Mystrade

by Corrie71



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrie71/pseuds/Corrie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this post on Sherlock Confessions:  http://sherlock--confessions.tumblr.com/post/46356886347</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade hated working night shift. The graveyard shifts were inevitably the very worst thing about being a cop. But, Becca had just shown him the stick with the dual pink lines this morning—and baby made five. They needed all the money they could get so he’d put in for NSY’s special overtime program that allowed him to pick up extra shifts. Of course, the extra shifts were the worst, the bad jobs no one ever wanted to do. And Greg had pulled the worst of that bad lot and got to spend his evening rounding up druggies. The man he’d arrested was bombed out of his mind, his nimbus of charcoal curls tangled and snarled, tall and thin. 

“Got ID on you, mate?” Greg asked easily.

“No.” 

“Want to tell me your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, seriously. What’s your name?” Greg escorted him to a bench in the booking area. After sitting down, the man shook his overlong fringe out of his eyes—a startling pale turquoise color and enunciated carefully, in an accent so posh he could make the queen sound common. “Sherlock Holmes. Phone my brother, Mycroft, if you don’t believe me.”

Greg rolled his eyes and strode over to the standing desk to begin the endless ream of paperwork, ignoring the man, who continued to assess him. Greg was halfway through the forms when the man spoke again. “I know you. You’re that inspector on that series of Thames drownings, aren’t you? What on earth are you doing here? Or did your failure to solve the case get you knocked down to beat cop?”

Greg ignored him but it seemed the man—Sherlock—was on a roll. “No, wait, you’re working extra hours for something. You must need the money. Married, I see. With two—no, about to be three—kids.” 

Greg stiffened. His co-worker said “Becca’s expecting again?” and Greg nodded stiffly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. How on earth could Sherlock have known that? 

“Doesn’t it bother your wife that you’re bisexual?” Sherlock asked and Greg dropped his pen. There was no way that Sherlock could have known that. He hadn’t—that is, he’d experimented a bit in uni, that was all. Years ago. Greg glared at Sherlock and picked up his pen again.

“Ah, doesn’t know. Wise to keep it that way, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Have I arrested you before?” Greg asked, leaning his elbows on the desk, and Sherlock smiled. He would really be quite devastatingly handsome, if it weren’t for the ravages of the drugs.

“You’re going about the Thames murders all wrong. You think the victims are unconnected but I think they are. And I know what the connection is.”

“Oh, do you now?” Greg folded his arms over his chest. “So, instead of filling out these forms for disorderly conduct and buying smack off Jimmy the Crab, maybe I should book you for three murder charges instead.”

“Only if you want to look even more foolish that you already do.” Sherlock said. “I didn’t kill those girls. But I know who did. Single man, probably employed in the City, no doubt has sexual issues, probably an overbearing female relative but possibly not a mother—maybe a sister. He’s revenging himself on something done to him. It’s not sexual as there is no sign of assault. And these aren’t young women. I suspect he’s upset because they are in some sort of position of authority over them.”

“Any more crackpot theories you’d like to share before your trip to the drunk tank?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Detective Inspector.” A smooth, urbane voice cut in from behind Greg. Greg turned. A handsome, tall, ginger haired man stood there, dressed in a natty three piece suit, leaning on an enormous black umbrella. “I’m Mycroft Holmes. You may remand my brother into my custody. I will drive him to rehab myself this time.”


	2. Chapter 2

When it turned out that Sherlock’s crackpot theory on the Thames murders was spot on, Greg tried to find him to no avail. In an odd way, the lanky stranger could have been helpful. He obviously possessed a brilliant mind under all the drugs. Greg wanted to get to him before he killed off all his brain cells. 

As he exited NSY after a long and exhausting day of court appearances and paperwork, he huddled in his coat against the rain, internally debating going to the pub for a pint (and thereby missing the witching hour of bedtime) or going home and being a good dad. He’d just started for the nearest tube station when a glossy black Mercedes rolled to a stop beside him. He strode on, ignoring it. The window whooshed down and he glanced over to see Mycroft Holmes. He stopped and gaped and said the first thing that popped into his head, long his besetting sin. “I’ve been looking all over London for your brother.”

“How intriguing. Do get in, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft slid across the seat and vanished from view. After glancing around, Greg opened the door and got in. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb to rejoin London’s traffic.

It was easily the most expensive car Greg had ever been in. It smelled of new leather and old money. He inhaled deeply and caught the undertone of bay rum and lime in Mycroft’s cologne. Intrigued, he turned toward the man. Immaculately attired in a suit that probably cost more than three months of Greg’s pay, his ginger hair, thinning a bit, perfectly coiffed and no hint of a five o’clock shadow. Greg tried not to glance down at his own rumpled suit, his coffee spotted tie, and his in-need-of-a-polish worn dress shoes.

“Tell me what your interest is in Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft said, in a silken voice, underlaid with steel. 

“I’ve no interest in Sherlock Holmes. He helped me with a case. I wished to thank him.” If Greg’s eyes hadn’t been locked on the ginger-haired man’s face, he’d have missed the flicker of surprise.

“He helped you with a case?” 

“Indeed he did. You’ve heard of the Thames murders? Been in all the papers.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and then nodded, once. “Well, when I busted your brother, he presented me with a several rather helpful theories. One turned out to crack the case.”

“I see.” A tiny furrow appeared above Mycroft’s nose.

“Anyway, I thought I’d tell him that, if he got off the smack, maybe I’d be able to help him get a job.”

“A job?” Mycroft parroted the word as though it were in a foreign language.

“Well, yeah, I mean, statistically most junkies revert to their old habits within a year or less. If he had a job to keep that brilliant mind busy, perhaps he wouldn’t relapse.” Greg shrugged. “I mean, I know it’s a long shot but staying clean always is.”

“Let me make sure I understand you. You wish to offer my brother a job in order to help him stay clean.” Greg nodded. “Why?”

“I like to be helpful.” Greg flashed a sunny smile at him.

“I see. Do you know who I am?”

“You are Mycroft Holmes. According to the ID you presented when you bailed your brother out, you’re eight years older than your baby brother and you live in a discreet and expensive section of London. This nice car isn’t yours but you get access to it for work. I’d say you’re either a City boy or a govie.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows nearly smacked his receding hairline. “Very good. If you’d be willing to help my brother, I can make it worth your while. I can help your career.”

“Wasn’t aware my career needed help.” 

“I can give you money. With two, no three, kids…”

“NSY gives me money. All regular like. In a pay packet with benefits, even.” 

“But your children…”

“No, thank you.”

“I see. An honorable man. How unusual. Help me help Sherlock. I would be forever in your debt, Gregory.”

The car slide to a stop and Greg noticed with some shock that they’d arrived outside his rowhouse. He climbed out of the car and then leaned back in. “I’m going to help your brother because he needs it. I don’t need your money or your favors. But, thanks for the ride home.” He winked at Mycroft, slammed the car door, and jogged up the steps. At the top, he gave a jaunty wave before disappearing inside, leaving a mystified Mycroft in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Mycroft couriered details of Sherlock’s current rehab stint, several dozen donuts, and a card with his personal mobile number on it to Greg at NSY. His phone buzzed at his mid-morning staff meeting—his fifth meeting that day and it wasn’t even time for a spot of tea and cake for elevens. Idly, he picked it up—he tried never to hurry in front of his staff---to find a text message from Gregory: “Thanks for the donuts. My co-workers got to them first.” Accompanied by a photo of the boxes showing only crumbs left. 

Mycroft texted back: “I see that I’ll have to think of more appropriate personal gifts from now on.”

He followed that up with a text to Anthea to discover exactly what sort of gifts Gregory might like, along with every other possible detail in his personal files. Mycroft enjoyed the flirtatious thrill that coursed through him as he thought of his silver fox. With a small smile playing on his lips, Mycroft rejoined the exceedingly dull conversation.

Late that afternoon, he received a startling text from his brother. “Lestrade just here to offer me a job. Know you’re behind this. SH.”

“I assure you it is all his idea. MH”

During the next several days, Mycroft followed with interest the strange series of murders going on in Redbridge, a small suburb of London. All male commuters, all over the age of 55, disappearing as they commuted to work. As he strode through the hallway at work, he stopped short at a television broadcasting Greg’s handsome face. Greg thanked everyone for their cooperation with the police and reassured the public that there was nothing to worry about. Ten minutes after the press conference ended, Mycroft’s phone buzzed again. “Cracked it again, thanks to Sherlock. Only he connected the bitter employee they’d all supervised. I’m letting him consult, so long as he stays clean.”

“Thank you, Gregory.” He ordered Anthea to deliver Greg ten pounds of the Kona coffee he loved, along with a new coffeepot and grinder. 

The next day, he received a photo of two mugs in front of the machine and a text that read, “I can’t drink this by myself. Come join me.”

Though very tempted, the pressing crisis of the day prevented Mycroft from the coffee date. The next day, he texted back that he was leaving the country and he’d have to take a raincheck on the coffee for now. While he was gone, his assistants kept him well informed of Sherlock’s frequent visits to NSY and the fact that he was apparently clean. By the time he returned to the country, Greg and Sherlock had cracked over half a dozen cases and Greg seemed poised for a meteoric career. Late that night, Mycroft sent Greg a text photo of a rather fine vintage of claret and two glasses.

Late the next afternoon, Greg responded, “Trade out the wine for whiskey and you’re on.”

For the first time any one at the office could recall, Mycroft left work early. He’d have been delighted to realize the cause for celebration this was at his office. They adjoined to the neighborhood pub to celebrate their freedom and, unbeknownst to Mycroft, England enjoyed a brief interregnum. By 8 o’clock, he had all ready. By 11, he was doubting Gregory would show. Mycroft was just nodding off over some appallingly dull trade briefs when the bell rang at midnight. 

He opened the door to find a rather miserable looking Greg, wet to the skin with circles dark as bruises under his eyes. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Do come in, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft ushered him in. “May I offer you a dressing gown while your things dry out?”

After Greg changed, he entered Mycroft’s smallest sitting room, still tousling his silver hair. Mycroft looked away, tamping down the spike of pure lust that slammed through him.

“I’m so grateful for your help with Sherlock, Gregory. He’s never been clean this long before.” Mycroft pressed a crystal tumbler of finest Scotch into Greg’s hand and sat opposite, giving Gregory the chair closer to the merrily burning fire.

“He’s a right wanker, your brother. Absolutely no social graces at all. He’s insulted absolutely everyone at NSY and most of the witnesses and families too. He’s not easy to get along with. He’s often cranky and refuses to condescend to explain anything. Having said that, he’s brilliant and sees things no one else does. So, I’m grateful for his help.”

Mycroft sipped his whiskey to cover his smile at Gregory’s blunt assessment. “You’re completely right.”

“I know I’m right.” Greg sat down. “You need to stop sending me presents though. People will talk.”

“People do little else.” 

Greg flashed a smile. “True.”

“I’ve found Sherlock lodgings in Montague Street.” Mycroft said and Greg nodded. They fell into companionable silence for a bit.

“How old were you when your parents died?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and didn’t answer. “Your brother isn’t the only one who is talented at deductions.”

“I’ve no doubt you have many talents, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled at him. “However, you’re making an erroneous assumption.”

“Your brother is an adult but he acts like a child. You worry yourself sick over him constantly. You’re older, but not that much older. Not hard to guess that you assumed parental responsibility at a young age.”

“My father died when Sherlock was 4. I don’t believe he remembers him much at all. My mother disconnected after that. She is still living but we rarely see her. Sherlock is brilliant. Always has been. And, believe it or not, he actually can be charismatic and charming, should he trouble himself to be so. However, he decided at a fairly early age not to bother with any of that. He considers himself above such petty notions as food and sleep and emotion. He was a difficult child to love and my mother just didn’t have the capacity for it.” 

“So you stepped in.”

“Well, in a way. As you say, I was much older and soon off at school. After many false starts, I found a nanny that stuck. Sherlock still adores Mrs. Hudson. He doesn’t adore me though. I’m not sure where he seized on this ridiculous notion of us being arch-enemies. But that’s Sherlock. Always dramatic.” Mycroft started as he realized he had just confided far more to this man than any other person, possibly ever. How unlike him to be so vulnerable. 

“And the drugs?”

“If you ask me, and Sherlock never would, the drugs are just a way to quiet his overactive mind. And I think he could give them up completely, so long as he never, ever, had to be bored. Unfortunately, in his worldview, he is often bored. And, right now, the only thing that keeps him from boredom is murder.”

“Well, at least London can provide plenty of that. And maybe some robberies or assaults, just to spice things up a bit.”

“So cynical.” The fire had reduced to embers by now, shadowing the room and imbuing it with a cozy intimacy. Mycroft poured Greg another tumbler of Scotch and watched as he slugged half of it back. “Difficult day, Detective Inspector?”

Greg shrugged, staring moodily at the crystal tumbler, as if he could divine the secrets of the universe from the cut crystal pattern on the bottom. Mycroft watched the way the light refracted into rainbows in the prism of the glass. Greg slugged back the rest of the whiskey.

“Trouble at home?” Mycroft asked softly and Greg glanced up.

“You ever been married?”

“Indeed not.”

“Being a cop’s wife is a tough. And she’s pregnant again. She’s got a right to be moody and difficult.” Greg said, in a flat voice, as though he’d learned this speech by rote.

“I’m sure she does.” Mycroft wondered if Greg knew the impending child wasn’t his. As always, Mycroft’s assistants were most thorough. 

“But, part of me feels like she knew what she signed up for. And now,” Greg raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s not fair that she’s pushing me to be home more. It’s not like a 9 to 5 job, you know? It never will be. Sometimes I believe that I’m not cut out for marriage.”

“I see.” Mycroft considered asking if his marriage issues stemmed from his bisexuality but decided against it. Greg could reach his own conclusions, in his own time.

“I’m not sure why I’m here really. I just…didn’t want to go home.” Greg stood to place the crystal tumbler on a side table next to Mycroft’s chair.

And then Mycroft did something so daring that, looking back on it later, he could never quite believe he’d actually done it. He reached out and tugged at the belt of Greg’s dressing gown. The gown gaped open, exposing the tanned expanse of Greg’s chest to the firelight. He glanced up at Greg who tumbled into his lap and slammed his mouth into his. 

Their coupling was fierce, frantic, needy, everything at once. Greg moaned, “I’ve missed this so much.” Mycroft knew he meant being with a man, with no need for delicacy, both lusty and proud of it, just over the edge of rough. They ended up rolling around on the thick, luxurious carpet in front of the fire. For months afterwards, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to block out the images he’d saved from this encounter, playing like an erotic filmstrip in his head. After it was over, they lay next to each other, staring at the shadows the firelight cast on the ceiling.

“I’ve never cheated on my wife before.” Greg said, musingly, as though he knew he’d regret this but couldn’t bring himself to do so now. Again, Mycroft refrained from telling him that his wife hadn’t shared his ideal of fidelity. “I had several flings with men in uni but once I met Becca, I stopped.”

Mycroft sighed.“Gregory, I cannot have a love life. It’s not who I am.”

“So this is just a one time deal then? A one night stand?” Greg turned his head and stared at him. Mycroft turned his head and their gazes met and held, each acknowledging that had circumstances been different, they might have shared a very different future. Slowly, never breaking eye contact, Mycroft nodded. Greg sighed and rolled over on top of him with a wicked grin. “Guess I’d better make the most of it then.”


	4. Chapter 4

After their one night fling, Mycroft went back to work. Greg went home to his wife. And, by unspoken agreement, neither ever mentioned it to Sherlock. He didn’t deduce it himself because Greg kept him totally distracted with a series of cold cases. He may have suspected that Greg had had a one-night stand, even deduced it was with a man. But, even for Sherlock, knowing the identity of the man was a big leap. And Greg desperately did not want Sherlock to know—and then to announce in front of everyone at NSY—that he’d shagged his big brother. 

And if either Greg or Mycroft found themselves at odd moments dreamily reminiscing about that night or fantasizing about a life together, well, they both kept it completely to themselves. If Greg and Becca’s marriage seemed more tumultuous than ever, he attributed it to now being outnumbered by the children. He certainly never consciously connected it to a tall, slightly balding, ginger haired man with a long nose and a ridiculous name. Mycroft was far too busy running the entire British Empire and a good portion of the rest of the world to consider such minor considerations as his heart. 

And so it might have stayed. 

Had it not been for Irene Bloody Adler. 

Or rather, more precisely, after that blasted awful Christmas party. Right before skewering poor Molly, Sherlock casually deduced his wife’s affair with the sodding PE teacher—that bloody awful hulking blonde gorilla. Greg could never abide seeing fairy lights after that. After the party split up, Greg strode to the nearest pub and slugged back a startling number of watered down whiskeys before walking through the gently fallen snow to Mycroft’s door.

Mycroft, having had rather an appallingly miserable Christmas Eve himself, what with having to accompany his baby brother to identify The Woman and worrying about him relapsing into drug addiction, was also rather completely drunk by this time. He opened the door and stared at Greg in utter shock. 

Within seconds, the two men fell on each other, ravenous by their long separation, desperate for each other. They barely made it out of the entry hall without ripping each other’s clothes off, tumbling to the floor and into each other’s hearts.


	5. Chapter 5

And so it may have continued forever. 

Greg and his wife separated. He found a bedsit that he hardly ever went to but he rented it because he was too proud to be a kept man. And he knew, in that deeply instinctive way, that this time with Mycroft was the real deal. No need to rush things. Greg and Mycroft were amazingly compatible—both in bed and out. They could laze away the evening, drinking Scotch in front of the fire, playing chess, chatting about current events, debating Shakespeare’s plays. Though neither man recognized it enough to label it, they were happy and content.

In the spring, they went on holiday together. Mycroft’s first holiday since anyone could recall and Greg’s first in a decade that hadn’t involved Disney parks or educational trips for the kids. Majorca was lovely that time of year. They rented a private villa on the beach, blindingly white and covered with vines, so picturesque it looked like a postcard. They kept promising each other that they’d go and explore the town and the rich history of the region tomorrow. Yet, when tomorrow came, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other long enough to go out in public. 

On the last night of their trip, swimming lazily together in the darkened private swimming pool, under the brilliantly starry sky, so gorgeous that they may have been swimming in the infinity of the Milky Way, Greg turned to Mycroft and blurted out, “I love you.” Mycroft, absorbed in his contemplation of the Gemini constellation, started and then infinitesimally turned his head toward Greg. He shook his head and glanced away.

“No, don’t deny it. No need to say it back. I just…” Greg shrugged. “Wanted you to know.”

“Gregory, I’m just a rebound for you.”

“Don’t say that, Mycroft. I’m not presuming to tell you what your feelings are. Do the same for me.” Mycroft turned his head and their gazes met, locked, held. And Gregory saw the truth there, the vulnerability that Mycroft desperately—and futiley- attempted to control and conceal. He sucked in a breath. “You’ve never said it before, have you? To anyone?”

“I have. I used to tell Sherlock that when he was a baby.” Mycroft glanced away, to protect himself from the intimacy of that admission. 

“Not the same.” Gregory said, aching for the incredibly lonely little boy and man his lover must have been before.

“I know.” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m not sure that I’m capable of it.”

“Of loving someone? You are. Absolutely. It’s a testament to your character that you can, after the cold fish you had for parents, but you could. You do love Sherlock, even still.”

Mycroft sighed and nodded. After a few beats of silence, Greg continued.“Sodding Holmes boys—desperate to conceal that you have real human weaknesses and emotions. Do you know what Sherlock said one time? One of my guys—Anderson—was giving him a rough time and called him a psychopath. No, don’t look like that. You cannot order a hit on him. He’s actually one of London’s finer pathologists. Anyway, Sherlock turned around and snapped at him that he was a sociopath. It was right after he’d met John and, well, you saw how fast, how intense, that bond was. It was obvious even to a bounder like me that Sherlock wanted to believe he was a sociopath, maybe even does believe it, but he’s absolutely not.”

“Greg, I…” Mycroft trailed off and Greg leaned over and kissed him hard and fast. 

“Don’t say it, Mycroft. You don’t have to say anything at all. But don’t lie to yourself that you’re not capable of love. You might like to believe it, just like your baby brother, but it’s not true.”

Their idyllic holiday ended. The following day, Mycroft called Greg and said, with no preamble or attempt at pleasantries. “My brother and his friend have just broken into Baskerville.”

“The scientist’s place? What on earth are they doing there?”

“Indeed. I haven’t the foggiest notion what they are up to. Off on some madcap case, I’ve no doubt. I’m afraid I must cancel our dinner tonight so I can go and sort this out.”

“Why don’t you let me do that for you, Mycroft? Sherlock may tell me more than he would you.”

Mycroft fell into silence for several long beats and then said, surprise still evident in his voice, “You would do that for me?”

“Isn’t that what partners do for each other?” Mycroft thought that Gregory had just managed to do what many heads of state had not and surprise Mycroft twice in less than five minutes.

“Thank you, Gregory.”


	6. Chapter 6

And so things may have continued indefinitely, until they both retired and lived out their years as beekeepers in Sussex or bookshop owners in Kent or some other equally Utopian retirement. But, instead, Sherlock got them tangled inside a spider’s web and they ended up all being tasty flies. 

After Sherlock toppled off St. Bart’s, he left quite a trail of destruction in his wake. His beloved John, shattered. Greg, his meteoric career now in tatters. His brother now forced to fend off the power hungry vultures that came to sniff at his weakness and jockey and circle to increase their position in the shadowy government circles. Greg sought solace by finding the bottom of as many whiskey bottles as he could. He picked a row with Mycroft and stormed out. He fell into the nearest pub and barely ever came out. 

Months passed, until it was a late autumn dawn, with winter’s teeth just beginning to nip at fingers and toes. In the cold, gray dawn, Greg, profoundly drunk but also coldly sober, found his way to the top of St. Bart’s, and stared out as the pearly fingers of dawn caressed St. Paul’s cathedral, washing the city below in a thousand shades of silver and oyster and grey. He thought of Sherlock and, though he still felt an irrational stab of anger at his essentially selfish act, he understood it. Like Sherlock, he’d lost it all— his career, his reputation, his family, his love. At the thought of Mycroft, Greg’s heart twisted painfully. He had Sherlock beaten there. John still remained faithful, unshakably loyal, even after it all. Like a Labrador retriever. He’d found Greg a few months ago with some scheme to review all the cases Sherlock had ever been involved in, desperate to clear his name. Greg sent him away. 

If it wasn’t for his kids, Greg would have stepped over the ledge into the welcoming arms of oblivion. He stood there until he felt the strength of the sun on his face, swiping at the tears that gathered in the corner of his eyes. Behind him, he heard the rooftop door bang open and footsteps crunch toward him. Security no doubt. On the breeze, he caught a whiff of bay rum and lime. His heart slammed against his ribcage. 

Mycroft. 

Greg swallowed and said. “I’ve been standing here for ages and I don’t have even a bit of the courage he did.”

“You think it takes courage to kill yourself, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and surveyed him. Greg glanced at him and looked away, the brightness of their once promising future too painful to consider.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not that any more. I’m nothing.”

“Come now, Gregory. There is no need for dramatics.” Mycroft shot his cuffs and looked expectantly at him.

“You know why we didn’t work? We’re chalk and cheese. You’re all posh and I’m just a working class stiff.” In the still, dark places in the night, that same fear surfaced over and over—that everything he’d had with Mycroft was just an illusion, based on their abiding physical attraction to each other. He loved Mycroft, desperately, completely, utterly. And he feared that it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, ever reciprocated, even without his brother’s blood ruining it.

“We didn’t work, as you say, because my brother selfishly couldn’t face the consequences of his actions, destroying several lives in the process. Suicide is an essentially selfish act.” Mycroft sighed.

“I drove your brother to suicide.” Greg despaired. And thought that this, finally, was the real reason he’d left Mycroft. He couldn’t bear to see Mycroft’s feelings toward him turn to hate and bitterness and resentment.

“No, you didn’t. I did that.” Mycroft admitted.

Greg turned toward him, feeling as ancient as the Thames, his bones creaking together like a rusty door. “What on earth are you on about, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed deeply and glanced toward the sunrise. He paused for a heartbeat and then nodded, as though coming to a decision. “What I am about to tell you is—well—it could get us both tossed in a cell. Moriarty was in our custody and no one could break him. To get him to talk to us, I gave him what he wanted. I gave him information about Sherlock. And, in the end, it was enough for him to destroy and discredit my brother.” Greg sucked in a breath. “So, you see, it was me that brought about his destruction. I as good as pushed him off this very roof.”

“You couldn’t have known…It’s not your fault.” Greg whispered, horror turning his bones to ice.

“It’s not your fault either, yet you’re peering over this ledge like you’d like to follow him. Then, I shall have a very curious distinction.”

“What’s that?” Greg’s gaze locked on Mycroft.

“Both of the people I loved jumped from St. Barts.”

“Is that your mad way of telling me you love me?” Greg smiled.

“I do. You must know it.” Mycroft said and Greg stepped down from the ledge and walked into his embrace. 

“I wasn’t actually going to jump. And I love you too.”

They kissed as the breeze danced around them and the sun finally broke through the clouds. Hand in hand, they walked into their future together.


End file.
